If I'd known that flight to Chiang Mai would split my life into "before" and "impossible," I might've held onto my old manga a little tighter when packing.
I was fifteen, Mia fourteen—just old enough to argue over who got the better room, but too young to grasp that "home" could fit in a cardboard box.
The morning light seeped through my curtains, slanting over piles of folded shirts and a half-packed box labeled "Jax's Junk" (Mia's handwriting, obviously).
I stared at the tape gun in my hand. Then at the Thai history book on my desk—the one Mia and I begged Dad to buy after the cultural fair.
Its pages were dog-eared, marked with notes about temples and festivals we'd only seen in photos.
"Jax! Have you seen my elephant keychain?" Mia's voice bounced down the hallway, shrill and urgent.
A second later, she poked her head in, dark hair sticking up in a messy bun.
Her backpack was slung over one shoulder, and she was already half-dressed in the yellow shirt she'd picked for "moving day."
"Top of your dresser," I said, nodding toward her room next door. "You left it by your silk scarf."
Her face lit up. She darted out, then back in ten seconds flat, keychain swinging from her finger.
"Thanks! I can't lose this—it's my good luck charm for Thailand!"
I snickered. "It's a plastic elephant. Not a magic wand."
"It's special," she huffed, leaning against my doorframe. "You taking that history book? Or are you gonna leave it for the new people?"
"Duh," I said, shoving the book into my box. "You think I'm gonna miss out on visiting those temples? Mom said we can climb Wat Phra That Doi Suthep—309 steps, remember?"
Mia grinned. That bright, stubborn grin—same as the day we stumbled on that Thai fair last summer.
We'd wandered in after school, drawn by the smell of satay and the sound of music.
Mia had gotten sticky rice all over her shirt. I'd bought a tiny lotus pin that still sits on my desk.
We'd rambled about it for weeks. How the dancers' silks swirled like water.
How the mango sticky rice tasted like sunshine.
How maybe, just maybe, we could stop living in the same Tokyo apartment we'd had since kindergarten.
Dad had laughed when we brought it up. "Thailand? You two don't even speak Thai."
Mom had raised an eyebrow, but she was smiling. "We speak English. And the cost of living's better. Besides…" She'd glanced at Dad. "When's the last time we did something crazy?"
No arguments. No long talks. Just John and Ann—our parents—shrugging and saying, "Why not?"
"Kids! Breakfast is ready!" Mom's voice cut through my thoughts.
The smell of tamagoyaki hit me next—sweet, eggy, the same as every Saturday morning. But today, it felt different. Like a goodbye.
Mia and I raced to the kitchen, nearly tripping over a box labeled "Kitchen Stuff" in Dad's messy handwriting.
The table was crowded: tamagoyaki, miso soup, and a plate of matcha cookies Mom had baked last night.
Dad was already there, flipping through a stack of papers—passports, plane tickets, a printout of the hotel we'd booked.
His coffee was still steaming. "Flight's at 14:00 from Haneda. Taxi's here in an hour. You two packed everything?"
Mia held up her keychain like a trophy. "Got my elephant, my phrasebook, and my food notebook. I'm ready."
I tapped my pocket—phone, wallet, passport. "All set. Unless you count the fact that I still can't believe we're actually doing this."
Mom laughed, sliding a bowl of soup toward me. "Believe it, kiddo. Last night I called the hotel—they said there's a street stall right outside that sells mango sticky rice until midnight."
Mia's eyes went wide. "Midnight? We're eating there first. No unpacking. No sleeping. Just sticky rice."
Dad shook his head, but he was smiling. "You'll crash before we even get there. Finish your food—we've got boxes to haul."
We ate fast, too hyped to linger. Mia chattered about silk scarves and night markets.
I picked at my tamagoyaki, staring at the window. Outside, the cherry blossoms were falling, pink petals swirling in the breeze.
For fifteen years, this had been my life. Wake up. Walk to school past the 7-Eleven. Come home to Mom's cooking. Repeat.
Now? Everything was about to shift.
The doorbell rang. My stomach dropped. That was the taxi.
Dad stood up, grabbing the biggest box. "Jax, help me with the manga. Mia, grab your backpack."
We hauled boxes down the hallway. The air smelled like Mrs. Tanaka's lavender air freshener—she lives next door, the one who bakes us cookies every New Year.
I paused at her door, remembering how she'd hugged us yesterday, saying, "Send photos of the mangoes."
Mia nudged my elbow. "C'mon. We can't miss the taxi."
She was right.
The taxi was a white van, its backseat piled high with our boxes before we even finished loading.
The driver tipped his cap, his English rough but clear. "Haneda Airport?"
Dad nodded. We climbed in—me by the window, Mia next to me, Mom and Dad up front.
As the van pulled away, I pressed my forehead to the glass. Tokyo slipped by: the convenience store where I bought milk every morning.
The park where Mia fell off her bike last summer. The Tokyo Tower, glinting in the distance.
I'd always thought this city was permanent. Like it would never change. But watching it fade, I didn't feel sad. I felt… light. Ready.
Mia leaned over, pointing at a billboard for a Thai restaurant. "Remember that place? You ate three bowls of pad thai and complained your tongue was on fire."
I laughed. "Hey, I was training! When we get to Chiang Mai, I'm gonna eat pad thai every day."
Mom turned around, grinning. "Don't you dare. You need vegetables. Though… I wouldn't mind trying durian. Heard it's an adventure."
"Adventure my butt," I said. "It smells like rotten eggs. Mia's the one who thinks it's 'exotic.'"
"I do not!" Mia protested. "I watched a video—people say it's sweet! You're just scared."
Dad chuckled, glancing at us in the rearview mirror. "We'll settle it in Chiang Mai. Winner picks dinner for a week."
Traffic was light, for once. The van glided along the highway, and soon enough, Haneda Airport loomed ahead—huge, glassy, planes taking off with a roar that shook the windows.
My heart started racing. This was it. No going back.
We unloaded the boxes, stacking them by the entrance. Mom went to check in, Dad stayed with the luggage.
Mia tugged my arm toward a vending machine. "C'mon. Last Japanese snacks before Thailand!"
She bought a green tea soda, I got a chocolate bar, and we leaned against the wall, watching people rush by.
Businessmen in suits. Families with kids clutching teddy bears. Tourists taking photos of the "Haneda Airport" sign.
"Can you believe we're leaving?" Mia whispered, sipping her soda. Her voice was soft, like she was scared to say it out loud.
I shook my head. "Nope. But… it's cool, right? New school. New food. No more walking past the same store every day."
She nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah. Cool."
Mom waved us over a few minutes later. "All checked in! Gate B17—let's go before we miss boarding."
We grabbed our carry-ons and followed her, weaving through the crowds.
Mia stopped to stare at a shop selling Thai souvenirs—tiny elephants, silk keychains—and I had to nudge her to keep moving.
"Later," I said. "We'll get better stuff in Chiang Mai."
She pouted but kept walking. When we reached the gate, the screen flashed: Tokyo (HND) to Chiang Mai (CNX) – Boarding in 20 minutes.
Dad pulled out his phone. "C'mere, you two. Photo time."
Mia slung her arm around my shoulders. I grinned. She made a silly face, sticking her tongue out.
Dad snapped the picture, then showed us. "Perfect. Someday we'll laugh at how nervous we were."
"I'm not nervous," Mia said, but her fingers twisted the strap of her backpack.
I nudged her. "Sure. That's why you've checked your keychain four times."
She stuck her tongue out at me.
Then the boarding call blared. My chest tightened—excitement, not fear.
Maybe this plane wasn't just flying to Thailand. Maybe it was taking us somewhere we couldn't turn back from.
Mia grabbed my hand, squeezing it hard. We handed over our tickets, walked down the jet bridge, and stepped onto the plane.
The flight attendant greeted us in Japanese, then English. "Welcome aboard. Enjoy your flight to Chiang Mai."
Mia darted to our seats—window, of course. I followed, dropping my backpack under the chair.
She pressed her face to the glass, staring at the tarmac. "Look at the planes! They're so big!"
I sat down, buckling my seatbelt. Outside, Tokyo's skyline was still visible, faint and far.
For a second, I missed it—the noise, the familiarity, Mrs. Tanaka's cookies.
But then Mia nudged me. "Hey. When we land? Mango sticky rice first. Deal?"
I laughed, squeezing her hand. "Deal."
The plane's engines roared. Mia grabbed my hand again. We taxied down the runway, faster and faster.
Until suddenly—we were lifting off.
Tokyo shrank below us, tiny and bright. I watched until it blurred into the clouds, then turned to Mia.
This was the end of "before." Whatever came next? It was gonna be impossible.
She was grinning, eyes wide. "Thailand," she breathed, like she was testing the word.
"Thailand," I repeated.
And just like that, the "before" was gone.